


Hello My Old Heart

by AndSoIWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotp, Gen, Pre-Series, Sick!Dean, Uncle Bobby, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-11-28 19:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18212537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndSoIWrite/pseuds/AndSoIWrite
Summary: The older boy is sick, coughing in a way that makes Bobby cringe and the toddler has his fist wrapped in his brother’s shirt. And even though there is snow on the ground, neither one is wearing shoes. Bobby has never seen a sorrier sight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF, just bringing it over here for (hopefully) new readers! My vision of how the boys met Bobby.

**Hello my old heart**

**It's been so long**

**Since I've given you away.**

**And every day I add another stone**

**To the walls I built around you**

**To keep you safe.**

**“Hello My Old Heart” –The Oh Hellos**

 

            Bobby Singer led a simple life. Well, simple for a Hunter. He got up, checked his answering machine in the kitchen, turned up the volume on the police scanner, and then made himself a cup of coffee. After he walked to the end of the driveway in his robe, he’d pour over the newspaper because Bobby liked to keep a knowledge of what was happening in the world. Made him feel better prepared, even for the stuff that didn’t get reported on.

            Then he’d get dressed and park himself at the kitchen table where he would flip through pages of old lore until his fingers grew soft from the dust. Around midday, he’d stand and stretch, listening to the knobs of his spine crackle against the cold South Dakota air. The afternoons were reserved for tinkering on cars because Hunting be damned, he wasn’t about to let any monsters get between him and automobiles. Bobby lived and breathed the heaps of metals; he had since he was a young boy.

            Sure he still participated in Hunts – had to keep himself spry somehow – but it was more of a once a week kind of thing. He had connections to maintain, covers to keep up for the rest of the fulltime Hunters out there. Which was why he wasn’t surprised when Pastor Jim had called him a few days ago to warn him that he’d sent a new Hunter Bobby’s way.

            The guy’s name was John Winchester and his wife had been killed by God knows what. Jim hadn’t said much more but then again, he rarely did. Hunters weren’t usually chatty fellows.

            So Bobby wasn’t surprised when he had just sat down to a healthy helping of venison stew and a knocking came on the door.

            “Showtime,” he grumbled to himself, more annoyed that his meal had been interrupted than anything else. He figured he’d give the guy the details, load him up with weapons, and let him stay the night. New Hunters never stuck around for long, not once he put a silver knife in their hand and silver bullets in their gun. Half of them got themselves killed but Bobby had stopped being sentimental a long time ago. Ever since…well, ever since he had started living alone.

            He opened the door mid knock and came face to face with a tall, dark-haired man who obviously hadn’t shaved or slept in days. His cheekbones were gaunt, the skin stretched tight and almost an ashen gray. The dude looked positively haunted. And not in the way Bobby was used to.

            “Bobby Singer?” the man said, each syllable was pushed out of his mouth by exhaustion.

            “Yeah. You John Winchester?” John nodded and almost fell over. “You injured or something?” Bobby asked suspiciously. He wasn’t one to take on these kinds of surprises, he preferred to be decently notified if someone was coming to him bleeding out or whatnot.

            “Nah man,” John Winchester said, shifting slightly and tugging at something behind him. “My kid is sick. Been up with him for the past two days. Was on a Hunt before that.”

            But Bobby’s mind had gotten snagged on the word kid and that was when a young boy stepped out of his father’s shadow. John pushed him gently forward until he was standing before Bobby.

            He had sandy brown hair and was thin and lanky, wearing sweatpants that showed his ankles and socks that were obviously too big because they were six kinds of wrinkled. He had his head bowed to his chest but Bobby could hear his labored breathing, interrupted every few seconds by a loud sniffle.

            Pastor Jim hadn’t said a single word about a kid.

            “Shit,” Bobby said. He swiped his baseball cap off his head and scratched the matted hair underneath. The kid flinched at the word but didn’t lift his face.

            “You got a name?” Bobby said eventually after John failed to say anything else. The guy kept turning around and gazing back at his car, but he snapped back around when the kid didn’t answer.

            “Go ahead,” John said. “Answer the man.”

            “Yes, sir,” came a voice and it wasn’t small or frightened like Bobby had expected, but strong and clear. “It’s Dean, sir.” He dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his face and then lifted his head, showing off a pair of emerald green eyes that shook something loose inside of Bobby. A corner of his heart began to thaw at the open, vulnerable expression of the boy and the way his eyes were glassed over with fever, his cheeks a rosy, unhealthy red. He looked miserable.

            “Best come inside,” Bobby said, because he couldn’t believe a child was standing at his door in March with no shows and yet he wasn’t about to turn away a sick kid. The little boy – Dean – turned to his father.

            “I have to get Sammy,” he said.

            “Go on then,” John said. “Sorry,” he said, turning back to Bobby. “But I gotta take a piss. Do you mind?”

            “Sure,” Bobby. “Second door on the right. Don’t touch anything!” he called back as the other man stalked past him into the house. Dean was already headed down the porch stairs, holding on the railing and trying to avoid the last of the melting snow at the same time. Bobby followed him out into the yard.

            “Nice car,” he said once he got a good look at the Impala. It was in better condition than the boy who tugged open the backseat door, the paint fresh and unchipped, the tires hardly worn at all. Bobby stayed back a bit, not wanting to get too close to the kid because…well, Bobby didn’t much care for children. He was only out there to make sure the boy didn’t keel over before he made it into the house.

            “Thanks,” Dean said, voice muffled from where his head was stuck in the car. He appeared to be looking for something, mumbling to himself. “Hold still, Sammy, I have to – hold still!” Bobby figured he was searching for an action figure or even a stuffed animal.

            “Hurry up,” he said gruffly. “I ain’t got all day.”

            “Yessir,” Dean said, pulling back for the car, holding the end of something that was way too big to be a toy. As Dean backed away from the door, something large – something very alive -  followed him.

            “Dee?” It was a toddler, a pipsqueak of a kid with large hazel eyes and shaggy hair that looked as if it had been trimmed by a pair of exceptionally blunt scissors. Which it probably had.

            “Shh, Sammy,” Dean said, letting the boy past him and then going back into the car, this time pulling out a duffel bag the size of the toddler’s body.

            “Dee!” the little boy whined and wrapped one pudgy hand into the fabric of his older brother’s oversized tee-shirt. His own footie pajamas were thin and rustled against his body when the South Dakota wind brushed by. Sammy pushed himself against his brother, sticking his free thumb into his mouth. Dean’s hand automatically went around the little kid.

            “This is Sam,” Dean said. “He’s my brother.”

            “I see that,” Bobby said, still staring. Damn Pastor Jim had said nothing about one kid, let alone two of the monsters. He doubted the little one was even potty-trained.

            “Dee, cold,” Sam whined, turning his face away from the strange man in front of him.

            “I know,” Dean said and then coughed, reminding Bobby that one of them, if not both, was sick.

            “Let’s go,” Bobby said, turning on his heel, seething on the inside at the colossal mess this night had become. He liked his life as predictable as he could make it. What the hell was he supposed to do with two children in his house? It sure wasn’t toddler-proof, that he knew. The little one would probably off himself by accident on all the knives laying around.

            But it turned out he didn’t have to worry about little Sam running around touching things he wasn’t supposed to. The child didn’t move from Dean’s side. In fact, the entire way into the house and through to the living room, he kept a firm grasp on Dean’s shirt while the older boy lugged the duffel at his side. If Bobby had been more sentimental, he would have offered to help carry it. But he was not sentimental. Sam sat down on the ground when Dean told him to and stopped whining when Dean told him to and as far as Bobby could tell in the next ten minutes, did everything his older brother told him to. Bobby had never quite seen anything like that, although he didn’t hang out with kids in his free time so he didn’t think much of it at the time.

            “Pastor Jim didn’t say nothing about you bringing kids,” Bobby accused John. They were standing in the dingy kitchen, a space that Bobby tried to avoid as much as possible because this is where Karen had liked to spend her time. The boys were still in the living room, sitting on the floor because the couch was littered with old journals and books that Bobby had placed strategically for an upcoming Hunt.

            John shrugged.

            “Not my fault. He knows I have ‘em.”

            “What are you doing hauling two kids around, hunting no less?”

            “None of your business,” John snapped and Bobby raised his eyebrows.

            “Yer in my house, it damn well just became my business. You can fill me in or you can get the hell out of here.”

            The two men glared at each other for a moment, the silence between them interrupted only by Dean’s hacking from the other room. John closed his eyes at the sound.

            “He’s got something bad,” the father said, his voice lower than it had been a second ago. “I couldn’t keep him on the road. Can he stay with you until he’s stronger?”

            “What about the little one?” Bobby asked. “He gonna cause trouble? I ain’t got time for infants.”

            “Sammy’s not a problem,” John said. “Dean looks after him.”

            “How old are they anyway?” Bobby asked suspiciously. Dean might have been older but he didn’t look near old enough to be taking care of his brother.

            “Six and two. Attached at the…I’d say hip but it’s more like chest. Don’t go anywhere without each other. Hell, Sam listens to Dean more than he listens to me.”

            Bobby thought that wasn’t the greatest parenting right there but he kept quiet. Dean coughed again, this time accompanied by retching.

            “Alright. Y’all can stay until he’s strong enough to move on. Suppose there are some things I’ve got to teach you anyway.” Bobby watched as John’s ego grew three times over.

            “I already know enough,” he said. “Been Hunting for over a year now.” Bobby snorted and waved his hand at the man; if he was like the rest, he wouldn’t last six more months on the job with that attitude.

            “Dad?” Dean was standing in the doorway, Sam just behind his brother like a shadow. He peered at Bobby from behind Dean’s side and Bobby glowered at him. The younger boy hid his face.

            “What?”

            “I don’t feel well.” Somehow, the kid looked even worse. Gone was the rosy flush from his cheeks; now they were pale and gray-looking. His eyes seemed to water as if he were on the verge of tears.

            “Well, Bobby here is gonna take good care of you,” John said.

            “Excuse me?” Bobby said. John looked at him.

            “You just said that they could stay with you.” Bobby gaped at him, at a loss for words. Well yeah, he had said that but he’d meant the whole family could stay here. He wasn’t no babysitting service.

            “Well I meant y’all could stay here,” Bobby said, expression growing dark. He didn’t like being taken advantage of and that was exactly what was going on. “But I’m not so sure of that anymore. I think you take those two boys with you and get the hell off my property!” The last of the words ended up coming out at a shout and Bobby knew his face was getting all red and patchy like it did when he was upset.

            “What the fuck are you talking about?” John shouted right back at him. Bobby noticed Sam flinch out of the corner of his eye when his father yelled. Dean just watched with wide eyes. “We drove all this way, came to you for help, and now you’re turning us away? What kind of Hunter are you?”

            That was it for Bobby. He snatched a gun from where it was hanging by the front door and bullied John Winchester right out the front door. He had absolutely no intention of ever seeing this man again, that was for damn sure. Mr. John Winchester could take his no-good, arrogant, self-righteous, stubborn, gloating ass and shove it-

            “Bye, sir.”

            There was the boy with the green eyes again and now there were tears tracks down his face, perhaps out of pain or frustration or fright, Bobby didn’t know. He knew though that Dean was trying his best to stand up straight with the weight of the duffel bag forcing his small shoulders down and a little brother clinging to his shirttails.

            “Say goodbye, Sam,” Dean rasped around another cough.

            “Bye-bye,” Sam said, waving five plump fingers at Bobby’s gun.

            Bobby swallowed.

            He didn’t even like kids, couldn’t stand the messes they made, and how their fingers were always sticky even straight out of the bath. He hated the crying and snot and the annoying little clothes with equally annoying little buttons and zippers. But…

            There was something about these two, about the way they moved together, almost in a dance, to meet their son of a bitch father. He imagined them driving away, imagined not knowing where they would end up or if they would survive the night, let alone until their teen years. He had known John Winchester for all of thirty minutes but he didn’t trust the man with his own children.

Bobby Singer sucked in the breath that would change his life.

            “Fine,” he called out. John turned around, face practically glowing with anger. His eyes swept over Bobby and then down to the two boys traipsing barefoot back to the Impala. Dean looked over his shoulder at Bobby, and when they their gazes met, Bobby swore he saw a younger version of himself staring back at him.

            “I’ll take ‘em,” he said. “The boys.”

            Dean whipped his head back to his father who was obviously trying to decide whether to swallow his pride and let Bobby take his kids or whether to finally let himself be free to hunt without constant distraction. Sensing the wavering tension in the air, Sam started to whine and tug on Dean’s shirt, but the elder child just swatted at his brother’s hand and told him to shush.

            “Alright,” John said. “Thank you.”

            “Just for a little while,” Bobby warned. “You better come back to get them.” John nodded and walked over to his sons.

            “Be good for Mr. Singer, okay?” he said, crouching down next to them and showing the first paternal instinct Bobby had said this whole time.

            “I want to go with you,” Dean said, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

            “I good,” Sam echoed and reached out for his father. John held Sam close, burying his face in the little boy’s messy hair just for an instant, but ultimately pulling away, causing Sam to start crying.

            “No!” the toddler screamed, kicking at Dean who was trying to hold him back.

            “Take care of your brother,” was all John said before he stood up.

            “Yessir,” Dean said, who looked an awful lot as if he would like to cling to John’s legs as he walked back to the Impala.

            “Everything they need is in the duffel,” John said to Bobby as he opened the driver door. “They don’t have much.”

            “We’ll make do,” said Bobby, easily slipping into the plural. “Don’t get yourself killed,” he added, immediately regretting it when he saw Dean’s stricken face.

            Then with a wave and the spin of tires, John Winchester was gone. Almost as if he’d never been there at all.

            Except he had. Because there were two small children in Bobby’s driveway, one of them still screaming his head off, the other looking as if he were about to pass out any second. Bobby sighed. What had he done? It had been a stupid, irrational, impulsive act. He didn’t know anything about kids, let alone taking care of them. He wished Karen was still here; she’d know right what to do with them. He tried to think like his wife.

            “Let’s get you out of the cold,” Bobby said. Dean looked away from the now-empty driveway and toward Bobby.

            “Yessir,” he murmured. “C’mon Sammy, stop crying. It’ll be okay,” he soothed. Sam stopped the god-awful shrieking but he was still crying as he wrapped both arms around Dean’s legs. Dean brushed a hand through his brother’s hair. “It’ll be okay,” he repeated and then, “You hungry?”

            They must have been the magic words. Sam’s tears stopped.

            “Hungwy?” he said, and the hopefulness in his tiny voice almost broke Bobby’s heart of stone. Almost.

            “Yeah,” Dean said. “I have Cheerios in my bag.” Sam smiled and reached for the bag. “When we’re inside,” Dean instructed. “Come on.”

            “Alright, you both can sleep in here,” Bobby said after he had lead them into the house and up to the second floor. It took forever because Sam’s short little legs couldn’t climb all that well yet and so Bobby and Dean had to wait patiently for him to scramble up the stairs on all fours.

            The room was the smaller of the two guest rooms in the house, but the other had a ton of weapons in it and the bed wasn’t put together. But from the way the two boys never got more than a foot away from each other, he figured putting them in the same room was okay.

            “You’ll have to share a bed,” Bobby apologized.

            “It’s okay,” Dean said. “Sammy likes to sleep with me anyway.”

            “There’s a chest of drawers in the closet for yer clothes.” Bobby bit his lip. What else was he supposed to do? What did kids need?

            Dean dropped the duffel on the ground, seemingly dazed as he glanced around the room. Sam wasn’t so concerned with his new home.

            “O’s?” he asked.

            “Yeah,” Dean said. “Hold on.” He bent over the duffel and began rummaging around its contents. Bobby was standing in the doorway but he heard Dean’s soft gasp and then he definitely heard the boy start coughing. It was a painful sound, the loud hacking of the kid’s lungs struggling to pull in enough air. Bobby moved forward to help just as Dean fell to his knees, abandoning his search for Cheerios.

            “Whoa, champ,” Bobby said, rushing in and wrapping an arm around Dean’s chest to keep him from completely hitting the floor. The boy wriggled in his grip but gave up a second later when his body spasmed with another coughing fit.

            “Easy does it,” Bobby said, lowering his stiff knees to the floor. He could feel Dean’s chest heaving under his arm, could feel the shudders that wracked his lean frame as he gripped onto Bobby’s hand, trying to breathe. When the coughing finally subsided, Dean was spent. He hung limp in Bobby’s grasp, head bowed, breathing hard like a winded racehorse.

            “Let’s get you into bed,” Bobby said. Again, Dean tried to pull away but he was too weak and instead, just let Bobby scoop him up. The Hunter couldn’t believe how light the boy was – almost as if he weighed nothing at all. As if his baggy clothes were hiding a skeleton underneath them.

            “Dee?”

            Sam trotted after them as Bobby set Dean on the bed and peered over the edge of the mattress.

            “S-sorry,” Dean mumbled.

            “Ain’t no need to be sorry,” Bobby said, shaking out the blanket at the end of the bed. “I ‘spect you got yourself pneumonia. Probably from walking around without any shoes on.”

            “Yeah,” Dean sighed, eyes closing. Bobby slid an arm under his back and put another pillow there to support him. Dean coughed feebly as Bobby laid him back down.

            “Sammy?”

            “Dee!” Sam said, clawing at the bed.

            “Hold on, pipsqueak,” Bobby said, lifting the toddler up next to his brother. Sam glared at him and snuggled up next to his brother. In one of his chubby hands was a half eaten miniature bag of Cheerios, the kind they gave out at breakfast bars in motels.

            “Let yer brother sleep,” Bobby said, eyeing the younger kid dubiously. You weren’t supposed to leave a kid by themselves, right? But Bobby didn’t want them to feel like they were being spied on. Well, Dean wouldn’t know the difference. He was already sleeping, every breath sounding harsh and making Bobby wince. He wondered if he had any cough syrup tucked away in a cabinet somewhere and was on his way to find it downstairs when one of his phones rang, the one marked ‘Home’.

            “’lo?”

            “Hey Bobby, it’s Jim.” Bobby growled and settled down in one of the kitchen chairs.

            “I got a bone to pick with you, Pastor,” he said.

            “Ah. I suppose John Winchester showed up at your door?”

            “You suppose right,” Bobby said. “And not just him but two little ones as well. You gonna tell me why you didn’t warn me he was dragging around a couple of rugrats?”

            “Probably because I knew you’d turn them away before you even saw them,” Jim said easily. Bobby sighed into the phone and ran a weary hand over his face. “I’m sure you noticed they aren’t in good shape,” Jim continued.

            “They sure ain’t,” Bobby agreed. “The older one is pretty sick.” This time it was Jim’s turn to sigh.

            “I told the father to get him to a free clinic but he didn’t seem too concerned. I’m sorry to hear he’s worse. How’s the little one?”

            “Gun-shy,” Bobby said, referring to the way Sam walked only in his brother’s shadow. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with them.” Pastor Jim made a surprised noise.

            “What are you talking about?” Bobby sat up straighter.

            “That bastard, Winchester, dropped them and ran. I thought you told him I’d watch the boys.”

            “N-no,” stuttered Jim. He sounded distressed. “I would never do that to you, Bobby. I had no idea what he was planning.”

            “Son of a bitch,” Bobby said. “When I see him again…what happened to him anyway? What’s his story?”

            “Lost his wife,” Jim said hesitantly, as if he could feel Bobby stiffen up at the last word. “Something pinned her to the ceiling and set the house on fire. Barely got the boys out in time, he said.”

            “Shit.”

            “Yeah. He’s a rough one. Not sure he did the right thing by keeping those kids around. In my opinion, they’d be better off living with grandparents or something.”

            But there was already something growing in Bobby’s gut, a protective feeling over the two youngsters upstairs. He didn’t know why he felt so strongly over them, but he knew they might be something special. Damn, he was getting sentimental.

            “I’ve got ‘em,” he said gruffly.

            “Thanks, Bobby,” Pastor Jim said softly. “I know you never wanted – I know Karen - ,”

            “I’ll talk to you later,” Bobby said and hung up. It took a while before he could pull himself together enough to leave the table. His chest had constricted at the mention of his wife, his airway just a bit tighter than it had been before. Bobby’s head reeled and he drew in a breath, trying to steady himself against the onslaught of emotion that always accompanied the memories. It’d already been so many years and still the pain hit him fresh every time. He glanced around the house, hearing Karen chastise him in his head, telling him it was no place for a child – children – to be in.

            With that, he stood and started tidying up. Not cleaning exactly but he cleared counters and tables of knives, tucked away the bars of iron, the bags of salt. Then he went about adding even more protection to the already riddled walls of the house because he wasn’t about to take any chances. Little kids couldn’t protect themselves.

            After a while, his aching back needed a break and he figured now was a good a time as any to check up on them again. He loitered outside the bedroom door for a good couple minutes before getting up the nerve to go inside, half-terrified of what he’d find. What if they had died or something? Or escaped?

            But no. Both boys were exactly as he had left them an hour ago. Dean was sleeping, fussing lightly in his slumber, and Sam was sitting on the bed, something in his hand. The empty bag of Cheerios was at the end of the bed and it looked so tiny, not even the size of Bobby’s palm. His stomach shriveled at the thought of just how little the brothers had had to eat lately.

            Sam stilled at once when Bobby took a step in to the room.

            “Hey,” Bobby said, lifting a hand in greeting. Sam’s eyes narrowed and he crept closer to his sleeping brother. “Whaddya got there?” Sam didn’t answer, and his eyes didn’t leave Bobby as the Hunter walked further into the room. “Is that a toy?”

            It was. A small, paint-chipped action figure that looked familiar. Sam clutched it to his chest as if he was afraid Bobby was going to take it from him.

            “How’s yer brother?” Bobbys said, coming around to the other side of the bed. Sam scrambled backwards, away from the man, as Bobby sat on the edge of the mattress, frowning when he felt the intense heat coming off Dean’s skin. “Not good, huh?” he said, more to himself than the toddler.

            “Dee,” Sam said.

            “Yeah,” Bobby said. “I heard you two like each other a whole lot. That’s good,” he added after a moment. “Wish I’d had someone to share tough times with.” When he looked up, Sam was watching him blankly.

            “You wanna come downstairs?” Bobby said, standing. Sam shrank back. “I got a TV,” Bobby said. “We could probably find some cartoons. You like cartoons?”

            Sam didn’t answer.

            “Huh,” Bobby grunted and then remembered what Dean had said earlier. He eyed the empty cereal bag. “You still hungry, pipsqueak?” Just like before, he could see the kid perk up automatically.

            “Hungwy?” he asked and scooched a centimeter closer to Bobby.

            “Yep,” Bobby said. “I got lots of food downstairs in the kitchen. Pizza, cupcakes, cookies.”

            “Choochies?”

            “Oh yeah,” Bobby said in an exaggerated tone. Of course he probably had nothing of the sort in the cabinets but Sam didn’t need to know that.

“Dee?”

“No, your brother has to stay here,” Bobby said. Sam still hadn’t made a move and

Bobby made a show of walking halfway to the door. When he glanced back, Sam was looking between his brother and Bobby, clearly torn between leaving the safety of Dean and going downstairs for food. Bobby grinned when he heard Sam finally decide and little feet hit the hardwood floor. However, Sam froze when he saw Bobby watching him. So the Hunter made his way out the door, waiting for the footsteps to follow him.

            And follow they did. All the way down the hall and toward the stairs. In fact, Bobby was all the way down the stairs when he realized Sam was no longer following him. Slowly, he turned around as not to startle the child and was surprised to find Sam at the top of the stairs.

            “Come on,” Bobby urged. “Cookies this way.” But Sam was just shifting from foot to foot. “Ah,” Bobby said after a moment. “You can’t come down the stairs by your lonesome, can you?” He trudged back up the stairs and before Sam could process what was happening, Bobby scooped him up. The toddler went stiff as a board and Bobby almost dropped him.

            “Hey now,” Bobby said, huffing out a breath as they descended the stairs. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” It wasn’t until they were back into the kitchen that Sam clung to Bobby with his arms and the man was pretty sure that was because Bobby’s Rottweiler, Rumsfeld, had just started barking at the back door.

            “Don’t mind him,” Bobby told Sam, but inside he was unsure. He didn’t think Rummy had even ever seen a child before in his life, let alone had to share his house with one. “We’ll let him in later,” Bobby said. Sam’s head swiveled this way and that as they crossed the kitchen. When Bobby tried to dump him in a chair, the kid hung on to his neck.

            “Okay, you gotta let go,” he explained. “So I can get your food.” But Sam was stubborn and wrapped his arms and legs around Bobby like a monkey. “Alright,” Bobby said, hitching the child up on his hip. “Let’s see what grub I got.”

            The fridge was full of spoiled food and old leftovers. Bobby pined for the days where the freezer would be full of homemade dinners and there was always a pie in the oven. Karen had been the cook, not him. Sure he made a mean venison stew but he doubted the kid was going to eat that. Finally, he found a package of spaghetti and some tomato sauce.

            “Spaghetti it is.”

            “Sketti,” Sam said and Bobby nodded. The child’s small body was warm against his own but, like with his brother, Bobby could feel the thinness beneath his pajamas and it worried him.

            “But I’m gonna set you down so I can make it, okay?” Bobby said. Sam allowed himself to be put on the floor but he clutched the folds of Bobby’s jeans in his chubby fist, making maneuvering around the kitchen infinitely more difficult.

            If Bobby thought that he was messy, feeding spaghetti to a two-year-old was on a whole different level. By the time Sam had finished the bowl, there was more spaghetti on his face and clothes than in his stomach. Bobby sat opposite of him and watched as the little kid swirled a finger in the mostly-empty bowl and then sucked it clean. So much for the starving kids in Africa; he had one in his kitchen.

            Bobby managed to dig out some age-old molasses cookies from the back of some cupboard and even though he was sure they were stale, Sam bit into one enthusiastically. That was when they heard the shout.

            It was more like a strangled scream, caught between desperation and fear.

            “Saaaaaam!”

            There was a split second of Bobby and Sam staring at each other and then each was on his feet, rushing to the stairs. Bobby took the stairs two at a time, paying no attention to the toddler scrambling up behind him. When he reached the guest room, he found Dean awake and out of bed. The boy was hanging onto the doorframe, almost bent double with coughing. At Bobby’s approach, his head snapped up.

            “S-ssam,” he gasped. Bobby’s heart plummeted when he saw blood dribbling down Dean’s chin. Pneumonia it was.

            “He’s right behind me,” Bobby said. “We were having some dinner.” Dean’s only response was to tremble, his eyes searching Bobby frantically, suspicion leaking through the pain.

            “Easy, champ,” Bobby said, both hands up in the air. “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he repeated the same line he’d said to Sam. Something wasn’t right about such little kids being untrustworthy. What had happened to them? A part of Bobby didn’t even want to know.

            “Dee!” Sam had finally made it up the stairs and rushed to his big brother, almost knocking him over as he flung his arms around Dean’s middle. There was visible relief on Dean’s part and all his strength seemed to seep out of him. Bobby caught him as he sagged.

            “Back to bed,” he said. Nothing about the boy suggested a struggle. His clothes were damp, his body radiating heat like a furnace. When he coughed, blood splattered onto Bobby’s shirt front. Dean’s eyes widened.

            “Sorry,” he said.

            “Don’t worry about it. Ain’t the worst that’s happened to me. Not even close.” Once he laid Dean down, he hoisted Sam up beside his brother who snuggled into Dean’s side, glaring up at Bobby again. And they had just started to make progress. Dean coughed. The kid needed medical attention _now._ Lucky for him – and lucky for John Winchester – Bobby could help. He’d never let on to anyone other than Pastor Jim but once he’d started tending to wounded Hunters, he’d taken a couple of classes in EMT training.

            “I’ll be right back,” he said after propping Dean up with several pillows grabbed from Bobby’s own bed. Downstairs in the medical supply closet, he grabbed a whole bunch of stuff, eyes drifting to the phone. He should call a doctor. A real doctor. Sure Bobby knew how to stitch and set bones and whatnot, but that was all with adults. Kids were bound to be different. But he was sure as hell John Winchester had no health insurance and Bobby was also sure that the guy probably didn’t want his kids’ names entered in any kind of system.

            “Okay, I’m back,” he said, arms full of supplies. Sam watched him intently as he came around Dean’s side of the bed and pulled a chair close to the mattress. The green eyes fluttered open, wandering at first and then focusing on the Hunter.

            “That’s right,” Bobby said. “Just keep looking at me. We’re gonna fix you up. You know what an IV is?” Dean shook his head and Bobby held it up. “It’s a bag of special medicine that goes right into your veins to make you feel better.” He started prepping Dean’s arm.

            “Hurt?” Sam asked, peering over at Bobby’s ministrations.

            “Yeah,” Bobby said. “Your brother is real sick. But we’re going to make him feel better.”

            “Choochie,” Sam said and pulled a crumbling cookie out of his pajamas. He pressed it into Dean’s hand.

            “That was nice of you,” Bobby said, although he was kind of alarmed he hadn’t noticed the two-year-old snatch cookies right out from under him. “Okay, Dean, here we go,” he said as he slid the needle into the back of Dean’s hand. The boy hardly even flinched. His eyes rolled.

            “Good job,” Bobby said, taping the needle into place and hanging the bag on a nail above the bed. “That was the worst part.” Dean’s lips parted, the ghost of a sound coming out but Bobby didn’t catch it. “What was that, champ?”

            “I want…my mom.” It was just a whisper, a quiet plea, and it made Bobby bite down on his lower lip. He busied himself getting the oxygen tank ready.

            “These are gonna help you breathe, maybe stop your chest from hurting so much,” he explained as he wound the nasal cannula around Dean’s ears. Now the boy was staring straight at Bobby, his expression burning a hole in the Hunter’s skin, making him uncomfortable.

            “Where’s my mom?” he asked, eyes flickering over to Sam and then back to Bobby.

            “Not here right now,” Bobby said, turning away. He cleaned up the medical stuff and walked out of the room without another word, aware that two sets of eyes were watching his every move.

            Bobby made it to his room before his knees gave out. He collapsed onto his bed and let the creaking of the springs jar him back in time, flashes of his own mother appearing like fireworks in his mind.

            Her fear when his father opened the fridge and reached for a beer.

            Her helplessness when he beat her, the way she cowered under his gaze.

            Her look of utter betrayal when Bobby thought he’d fixed their problem for good.

            He’d never understood why she had felt so much loyalty toward the monster. Could she have truly loved him, the man who sent her bed with bloody lips and broken fingers? When he thought about it – and god he tried not to – that was when he’d first started treating injuries.

            Bobby raised his head with a weary sigh. It’d been so long since he thought about his mother and it drained him. Just like thinking about Karen did. He was so tired of losing people and he knew that’s why he kept everyone at arm’s length. He couldn’t afford to get attached.

            It scared him how the two boys down the hall seemed to have already carved out a piece of him. It’d hardly been half a day. What was wrong with him?

            “Uh-oh.”

            Bobby turned when he heard the small voice. Sammy was standing in his doorway, clutching his action figure.

            “Uh-oh,” he said again, turning a hand palm up in what Bobby thought was probably the cutest thing he’d seen this year.

            “What’s wrong, pipsqueak?”

            “Dee uh-oh,” Sam said and then tottered back down the hall out of sight. Bobby grabbed what he’d come into the room for in the first place and followed the toddler.

            The “uh-oh” became apparent as soon as Bobby walked into the room and the stench of vomit assaulted him. Dean was leaning over the side of the bed, coughing and spluttering his way through the end of the vomiting episode.

            “Balls,” he said.

            “Uh-oh,” Sam said again, pointing to the pool of throw up.

            “Yep,” Bobby agreed. “That is a big uh-oh.” Dean was in the process of swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

            “I c-can clean it u-u-p,” he stuttered, shrinking into a ball when Bobby took a step toward him. “I’ll clean it u-up.”

            “No you won’t,” Bobby said, putting a hand on each of Dean’s shoulders and forcing them to stop moving. The oxygen tubes had gone askew and Bobby fixed them with gentle fingers before squatting in front of the boy.

            “Listen here,” he said and Dean’s obeyed the command, allowing his gaze to drift upwards. He flinched when he met Bobby’s gaze and the Hunter gave him a small smile, trying to be comforting even though he didn’t know how.

            “I don’t know what’s been going in in your life, but you’re safe here. I ain’t got much but I’m gonna take care of you for a while. You hear me? You’re safe, champ. And your little brother too.” Bobby didn’t know how long he could offer this haven but Dean didn’t need to be burdened with that right now. No six-year-old should.

            “O-o-kay,” Dean say, sniffling and rubbing the glimmer of tears out of his eyes.

            “Good,” Bobby said. He helped Dean back into the bed and made quick work of cleaning up the vomit.

            “Good as new,” Bobby said, throwing the dirty towels out into the hallway. “Now let’s get you two changed and ready for bed.”

            “Night-night?” Sam asked.

            “That’s right,” Bobby said, stripping the covers off of Dean. Sam was laying on the other side of the bed, eyelids growing heavy. Dean was already mostly asleep. They were both worn out from the overwhelming stress of the day. “It’s time to go night-night. But first we’re gonna get you washed up because I bet y’all have some dirt behind your ears.” He grinned at Sam who smiled shyly back and then hid his face in his pillow. Bobby chuckled.

            He slipped off Dean’s too-damp clothes, leaving the boy in just his underwear, his pale skin looking almost bruised in the dull light of the bedside lamp. The Hunter took a warmed up washcloth and slid it over Dean’s body, scrubbing gently at the dirt and overall grime.

            “There we go,” Bobby said gently as Dean’s eyes opened for a moment. “I got you one of my nice soft shirts until we get you some more clothes. We should probably burn what’s in that duffel of yours.” He threaded Dean’s arm through an old flannel of his and then buttoned it up and drew the blankets back over him. Bobby’s heard thudded hard when he heard Dean let out a content sigh before falling asleep.

            “Your turn, pipsqueak,” Bobby said. “Come on, let’s go to the bathroom for you.” This time, Sam followed him willingly, even helped take off his own clothes, although he couldn’t quite work the old zipper on the footie pajamas.

            “Into the bath,” Bobby said, lifting the boy and setting him in the tub. He wasn’t going to draw a full bath because he doubted the toddler would stay awake that long. Instead he just administered the same washcloth bath that he had to Dean, albeit with more soap.

            “Can you say Bobby?” he prodded. Sam tilted his head to one side, looking astonishingly like a puppy. “I know,” Bobby said when only silence followed his question. “You don’t talk much, do ya?” He turned Sam around to get at his back. “That’s okay,” he continued. “You take as long as you like. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say when the time comes.”

            He ended up carrying the child back to the room, Sam’s cheek resting on Bobby’s shoulder, his action figure never having left his grip. Bobby pulled another shirt of his over Sam’s head and knotted the bottom so the child wouldn’t trip over it. Once Sam was underneath the covers, he scooted up next to Dean and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Dean’s body seemed to automatically curl around his baby brother although he remained asleep.

            Bobby pulled up a chair.

            “I’m just gonna watch out for you,” Bobby murmured as Sam’s eyes closed. “Just tonight, though. Not gonna make a habit out of it,” he warned no one in particular.

            As tired as he was, Bobby couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t stop staring at the sight of the brothers snuggled together. How quickly his life – and theirs – had changed within a day.

            Bobby Singer had never expected to have family again. And yet, he had an inkling – call it a Hunter’s sixth sense – that these two boys were about to be part of his life in a bigger way than he could imagine.

            Yep, he was definitely sentimental.

 


	2. Chapter 2

            Bobby slept with a gun on the nightstand. He slept with a knife under his pillow, his fingers resting on the worn, wooden handle. And it was that handle he gripped with white knuckles when he heard his bedroom door creak open. Bobby purposefully left the hinges rusty so that if something ever did cross the threshold, he’d know.

            Like tonight.

            He’d been dreaming of Karen when he slipped back into consciousness and it was her face, her voice that lingered in the room as he rolled over, knife in hand. Even as his muscles twitched and tightened, his mind was still hazy from sleep, from the way Karen had stroked his cheek. The way it had felt so real.

            And it was that fuzziness that had him brandishing a knife before his eyes were open, the metal tip coming within inches of a certain hazel-eyed toddler. One who yelped and tumbled to the floor when he tried to back away.

            “Balls,” Bobby said in the dark, tossing the knife behind him onto the bed. He’d forgotten in that moment between waking and sleeping, forgotten that down the hall were two children, the Winchesters. The smaller of the two – Sam – was on his floor. Bobby flicked the lamp on.

            “Watcha doing up, pipsqueak?” Bobby said, swinging both legs off the mattress. Sam crab-walked backwards, out of the light and back into the shadows. The boy seemed to be most comfortable in the dark, always half-hidden, trying to make himself invisible.

            “Potty,” came a whisper.

            “Alright,” Bobby said. “Let’s go.” But Sam darted out of the door and all the way down the hall.

            “Hey!” Bobby whisper-yelled. “You missed the bathroom!” Sam gave him a quick glance over his shoulder before disappearing into his bedroom. Grumbling, Bobby followed him, the hardwood floors creaking under his steps. He almost ran right into Sam who was standing just inside the doorway of the room.

            “Oi!” Bobby said, trying to keep his voice down, all too aware that there was a sick child in the bed. He’d stayed up with the boys for the first few hours but just a little while ago had decided to catch a couple hours of sleep in his own bed. He automatically moved over to Dean’s side of the bed, guided by the raspy breaths coming from the boy.

            “Potty,” Sam said again just as Bobby clicked on the bedside lamp. First he noticed Dean flinch as the light washed over his face, eyelashes quivering, lips downturned. Second, he noticed Sam pointing to the bed. Specifically to a large wet spot where the child had been laying.

            “Ah,” Bobby said. “Potty indeed.”

            “Uh-oh,” Sam said, which Bobby was quickly learning was one of the child’s favorite phrases.

            “Yeah,” Bobby said, now identifying the sour smell in the air. “You kiddos sure come with a lot of uh-ohs.” Sam skipped over to where Bobby was standing and that was when the Hunter noticed the t-shirt he’d put on Sam was wet too and that the boy was probably filthy underneath. He glanced at the clock; it was four in the morning.

            “First we’ll move your brother,” he said, drawing the overs away from Dean’s body. The boy withdrew his limbs into himself at the assault of cold air.

            “Dee?” Dean’s eyes fluttered and he winced against the light before closing them again.

            “Hey champ, just gonna move you.”

            “S’mmy?” Dean’s lips hardly moved but Bobby heard the indistinct mumble for what it was. Dean worked his eyes open again and they landed on Bobby. He watched several emotions flicker across the boy’s face before one of wariness settled in permanently.

            “You’re alright,” Bobby said. “Yer brother wet the bed so I gotta move you. Don’t have enough spare sheets in the house.” The fever patches were back and the nape of Dean’s neck was damp with sweat, trickling down his spine. Bobby could feel it as he sat the boy up against the headboard.

            “’m fine,” Dean said, pushing Bobby’s hands away, ending with a cough. Bobby uncurled the oxygen from his ears.

            “Okay, pipsqueak,” he said, turning to Sam. “I got an important job for you. Then we’ll get you cleaned up.”

            “Potty,” Sam said, pointing in between his legs. Bobby couldn’t help but chuckle.

            “We’re gonna work on that,” he promised the child before unhooking Dean’s IV from the wall. “You hold onto this – use two hands, like so, okay good. Hold tight!” Sam clenched the plastic bag so tightly that his tiny knuckles went white as he held the bag away from his body. Bobby scooped Dean up, wincing as the boy coughed again. He held Dean close to his chest and nodded to Sam. “Let’s go.”

            With the toddler marching at his side, Bobby set off on the short journey. They made an unwieldy and yet charming trio, the older man and the two boys. Dean turned his face into Bobby’s shirt, pressing his cheek right over where the Hunter’s heart was beating just a little faster than normal.

            “There we go,” he said, easing Dean onto his own bed. For a moment – just a split second – the boy wouldn’t unwrap his arms from around Bobby’s neck. Then Sam scooted up to his brother and Dean’s focus shifted. He reached out a clammy hand and Sam grasped it, dropping the IV bag onto the bed.

            “Uh-oh,” Sam told his brother. “Me uh-oh.” Dean’s eyebrows knit together and his eyes flickered toward Bobby.

            “I can clean it,” he whispered. “It’s not his fault.”

            “I know it ain’t,” Bobby said, pulling a spare blanket from his closet and throwing it over the boy who was already starting to shiver. “And I don’t mind cleaning it. Here, take a sip of water,” he said after he had filled a cup from the bathroom tap.

            Bobby slid a strong arm around Dean’s back and hoisted the boy up, waiting until he was through coughing to bring the cup to his lips.

            “Th-thanks,” Dean said, wiping water from his chin when he was finished. The green eyes were disappearing under heavy lids and Bobby slid him down again, gently swatting Dean’s fingers away when they rubbed at his IV. The boy forced himself to keep his eyes open; he couldn’t help but stare at the figure in front of him, so similar to his father and yet so, so different. Bobby had already turned away when he heard Dean’s soft voice.

            “Sir?”

            “Yeah?”

            Both Dean and Sam were watching him, linked together by hands and hearts they refused to separate. There was a glimmer of wonderment in Dean’s eyes when he asked,

            “Are you an angel?”

            Bobby sucked in a deep breath and then shook his head, staring down at his barefeet and watching his ugly toes wriggle. He spoke to the floor when he answered, stunned and humbled by the innocent question.

            “No, son, I’m not. Just a man who is trying his best to do the right thing.” When Bobby dared to look up again, he found Dean’s eyes already closed, fingers still clasped around Sam’s.

            Bobby didn’t know if the boy had even heard him answer.

xxx

            He was starting to like the quiet, strange toddler. While Sam didn’t talk much, he sure wasn’t stupid. He was a regular toddler, getting into things he shouldn’t while his brother wasn’t looking. Which, at the moment, was always. Bobby found that out when he went to draw a bath to clean the kid up and turned around to discover Sam half buried in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Bobby wrapped his hands around his tiny waist and drew him out. The boy giggled.

            “What are you doing, huh?” Bobby asked, tugging the t-shirt over Sam’s head and throwing it behind them. Sam whined at the cold air and bounced from foot to foot while he waited for Bobby to finishing filling the tub. He whined again when his toes touched the hot water and he immediately pulled his legs up to his chest so that Bobby had the boy suspended in midair like a sort of acrobat.

            “Aren’t you tired?” Bobby argued, once he had convinced the boy the tub wasn’t filled with lava by swishing the water around with his hand. Sam patted the surface of the water and then promptly sat down, sending a small wave over the side of the tub, effectively soaking Bobby’s t-shirt.

            Sam grinned up at him.

            “I’ll take that as a no,” Bobby said, lathering up a washcloth. “You know,” he went on, “you boys are gonna need some clothes, aren’t ya? And food.”

            “Hungwy?” Sam said, whipping his head around to look at Bobby. He’d been playing with the shampoo bottle but now it slipped from his soapy fingers into the water. Bobby fished it out and Sam grabbed it again.

            “Yeah, we have to go shopping,” Bobby said. “I bet you’re real fun to keep tabs on in a grocery store.” He sat back on his heels and let Sam play a little longer, satisfied that the little boy seemed happy playing in the water, watching the shampoo bottle bob along beside him.

            “Okay, let’s go,” Bobby said finally. “Back to bed. Although,” he added. “It’s almost time to start the day, ain’t it? I have a feeling I’m not gonna get much sleep with you two around.”

            “Night-night,” Sam said as they walked back to Bobby’s room. Sam dragged his towel behind him, preferring to let himself “air dry” as Bobby’s mother had called it. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have two sick children instead of one. With that thought, he grabbed another shirt of his and wrapped Sam in it.

            “I’ll be downstairs on the couch if you need me,” he told the toddler. “Just give a holler.”

            “No uh-oh,” Sam said and Bobby smiled.

            “That’s right. No more uh-ohs. At least not for tonight.”

xxx

            Bobby grabbed a couple hours of sleep on the couch but his body wouldn’t let him rest too far into the day. Not every routine could be broken. He listened for noise from the upstairs but when he heard none, he made himself a pot of coffee and downed two cups without even thinking about it, burning his tongue in the process. Still, a sore tongue was nothing compared to what the lack of caffeine would have caused. And he was sure he was going to need it for today. His first full day with the boys.

            He puttered around downstairs for about an hour and then couldn’t hold back any longer. His worry about waking Sam immediately vanished when he stepped into his room and found the toddler sitting up in bed playing with his action figure.

            “Morning,” Bobby said and Sam ducked his head, suddenly shy.

            “Aw, don’t be like that,” Bobby said, setting down his third cup off coffee. Sam craned his neck to see inside the mug and then curled back up against Dean.

            Dean who still hadn’t woken and who still didn’t look remotely better. Bobby sighed.

            “I think we’re gonna have to take yer brother to the doctor,” Bobby said. The mattress groaned as Bobby sat on the edge of it. He’d been hoping the extra oxygen and the IV fluids would be enough to prompt recovery but Dean was worse off than Bobby originally thought. It was a wonder the boy was still standing when he’d arrived at Bobby’s considering how fast he’d gone downhill.

            “Dee?” Sam’s voice was insistent as he tugged on the ends of his brother’s hair.

            “No, no,” Bobby said, pushing his hand away, but Dean was already stirring, brought back to consciousness by his brother’s voice.

            “Dee!” Sam said, bending over his brother’s face.

            “Hi, Sam,” Dean breathed without opening his eyes. “Didja brush your teeth yet?” Sam looked up at Bobby with a worried expression, almost as if he was afraid the Hunter was going to tattle on him.

            “Up,” Sam said. His tiny fingers dug into Dean’s arm and the older boy drew in a sharp breath and finally lifted his eyelids. “Dee, _up_!” Dean’s body jerked at the command.

            “Easy, kiddo,” Bobby said as awareness filtered in. Even barely awake, Dean’s muscles were coiled tight, his lips pressed together in a grimace. He reached out and clutched at Sam’s hand, eyes roaming the room, taking everything in.

            “Where’s my dad?” he asked after a moment.

            “On a trip,” Bobby said. “You two are gonna stay with me for a little while. Name’s Bobby.” There was a long moment where Dean seemed unsure if the Hunter was telling the truth, then he relaxed into the bed.

            “I don’t feel well,” he said, turning his face away from Bobby. “Can you make me better? I have to take care of Sam.”

            “I’m trying,” Bobby said. Dean flinched when Bobby laid a heavy hand on his chest, taking in the rapid beating of his heart. It was costing him effort to be awake and talk and yet he was hiding it so well. “Don’t worry about your brother. Me and him are friends. I’ll take good care of him until you’re better. Right, Sam?” The toddler looked up at his name but didn’t answer.

            “Promise?” Dean said. “Because Dad says he’ll take care of him but he forgets lunch sometimes. Don’t forget lunch, okay?”

            “I won’t,” Bobby promised. “You just work on getting better. Me and Sam will be here, eating three square meals a day.” Dean’s eyes were starting to close but he managed to look Bobby straight in the eye when he asked,

            “Am I gonna die?” Bobby’s chest contracted.

            “No,” he choked out. Where had that come from?

            “You can tell me,” Dean said. His body shivered from holding back a lingering cough but his expression was tough. Strong. Like a Hunter. “I just – I just want someone to take care of Sammy.”

            “Deeee,” Sammy whined, burrowing under his brother’s arms. He didn’t understand what was being said but he could feel the shift in tones, the stillness with which Dean held his body.

            “You ain’t gonna die,” Bobby said gruffly. “Nobody dies on my watch. And that’s that.”

            Dean fell asleep with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, definitely forgot about posting an update for a while. Thanks for your patience if you are still reading!

  
            It was ten in the morning when Bobby decided enough was enough. He was taking Dean to the hospital. The Hunter’s nerves were stretched tighter than a violin’s strings just listening to the boy’s breathing worsen. He’d tried moving him in all sorts of different positions but Bobby worried he was just making the boy worse. To make things even more horrifying, Dean had thrown up the last dose of Tylenol Bobby had given him, making it impossible to keep his fever down.

            “Okay, pipsqueak. We’re going outside.” Bobby said, standing up beside the bed after changing Dean’s clothes out yet again. At this rate, Bobby was going to run out of shirts to dress the kid in. Sam looked up from where he’d been coloring on some newspaper with a pencil.

            “Yeah,” Bobby said to himself, scratching the stubble growing along his jaw. “I think we definitely got to take him in. But I got a friend over at Sioux Falls General so don’t you worry. We’ll keep this quiet, just between us. You ain’t gonna say anything, are ya?”

            Sam blinked.

            “Didn’t think so.”

            Bobby used a warm washcloth to pry the medical tape off Dean’s hand and then slowly withdrew the IV, pinching the skin to make it stop bleeding. Dean’s head turned in his sleep, one cheek red from being pressed against the pillow for so long.

            “Dad?”

            “Nah, champ, just me,” Bobby said, unwinding the cannula. “We’re going to take a ride. Gonna get you fixed up so you’re not hurting so much. How’s that?”

            “Dee,” Sam said, finally sitting up and looking concerned when Bobby started swathing his brother in a blanket. “Bye-bye?” he said. “Dee bye-bye?”

            “You’re coming too,” Bobby said. “Come along.” Sam scrambled off the bed, newspaper crinkling as he followed Bobby down the hall, alarmed enough to scoot down the stairs on his butt instead of waiting at the top like he usually did.

            “Dee!” Sam whined as Bobby jammed his feet into boots and opened the front door. His movements jostled the boy in his arms and Dean’s eyes blinked open as he shivered from the cold blast of air.

            “I gotcha,” Bobby said.

            “Where’s Sam?” Dean wanted to know, twisting around even as he coughed. He almost fell out of Bobby’s arms.

            “Balls,” the Hunter said. “Stay put, will you?”

            “Sam,” Dean insisted.

            “Dee!” a voice piped up behind them.

            “Okay, just don’t move,” Bobby said to Dean as he situated him in the backseat of his truck, making sure that all of the kid was covered by the blanket. Dean sank against the side of the car but his eyes were ever alert.

            “I gotta get your brother.”

            “Hey you, let’s go!” Bobby said to the toddler who was standing about ten feet away from the car. He was barefoot and shifting from foot to foot, obviously freezing as he watched the truck warily.

            “Pala?” he mumbled.

            “What’s that?” Bobby said, sticking the carseat John had left in the driveway into the truck. “Come on!” Bobby said, waving his hand at Sam. But the child just took a step back, looking very confused.

            “Pala?” he said again.

            “He wants the Impala.” came Dean’s weak voice from inside the truck. “He’s never been in another car.”

            “Aw, it’s okay, pipsqueak.” Sam shook his head.

            “Pala!” he said. “Dee!”

            “It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean called out. “Come in the truck.” But Sam wasn’t having it. Eventually Bobby stalked past the frozen boy back into the house, grumbling all the way. He snatched the considerably lighter bag of cookies from the kitchen table and went back outside.

            “Look,” Bobby said. “Cookies!” Sam smiled without meaning to and he reached for the bag. Bobby stepped back and Sam followed him, moving closer to the truck. Bobby broke off a piece of cookie and handed it to him. Then Bobby took another step and they repeated the process. It was a painstaking process – especially because he had to wait for little Sam to chew and swallow the cookie before they went forward again. Eventually though, all three were sitting in the truck.

            “Bye-bye,” Sam said, waving at the house as they pulled out of the drive. Dean smiled at his brother. He rearranged his blanket so it was covering Sam’s feet.

            “Dean?”

            “Yes, sir?”

            “We’re going to tell the doctor you’re my nephew. Just go along with it. Let me do the talking.” 

            “Yes, sir.” Bobby hesitated then said,

            “You don’t have to call me sir. Bobby will do just fine.”

            “Dad says always ‘spect my elders.”

            “Well, respect my wishes and call me Bobby,” the man said, voice sharp. Sharper than he meant it to be. Dean’s eyes turned down and he let Sam play with his hand without another word.

            When they got to the hospital, Bobby carried Dean again, wincing when Sam’s bare feet hit the pavement of the parking lot and then the tile of the Emergency Room floor. He wondered if anyone would notice and then decided he had bigger problems as Dean was growing listless again, the car ride having tired him out.

            “I’m meeting Carolyn Wright,” Bobby told the nurse at the front counter. “I called her on the way over.”

            “You’ll have to fill out this paperwork,” the nurse said, pushing a packet of forms toward him. Bobby glanced down at the boy in his arms.

            “No,” he said. “I’m meeting Dr. Wright. Just page her or something.”

            “You have to fill out the forms _first_ ,” the nurse said. She stressed the last word as if Bobby didn’t understand the definition of it. Just as Bobby was about to take the forms and throw them on the floor, a blonde doctor swept through the double doors to his right.

            “It’s alright, Shawna,” she said, giving the nurse a reassuring smile and a nod. “This is an old friend of mine. We’ll fill out the paperwork after I see the patient.” Shawna muttered something about ‘protocol’ and then turned her back to Bobby, who rolled his eyes.

            “Nice to see you,” the doctor said to Bobby, a half-smirk crawling onto her face. “You always seem to be causing problems, Bobby.”

            “Alright, alright,” he said, feeling heat on the back of his neck. “You always were right beside me on the playground, Carolyn.” She laughed, a melodious sound that eased Bobby’s tense muscles. Carolyn Wright was his oldest friend; they’d grown up together, lived on the same block, been in all the same homerooms.

            “What have we here?” Carolyn said, unwrapping the blanket from Dean’s face so she could see him better. He wasn’t shivering anymore but his eyes were only half-open and he shrank away from her. “Let’s go back to a room,” she suggested and led them into the ER.

            “This is Dean,” Bobby said, laying the boy on the bed as Carolyn pulled the curtains closed around them. “He’s real sick. Pneumonia, I think.”

            There was a whimper and a tug on Bobby’s jeans and he looked down to find Sam peering up at him, disgruntled at being ignored for so long.

            “Oh,” Carolyn said, spotting Sam for the first time. “And who’s this?” Sam gave her a dimpled grin and then hid behind Bobby’s legs. “You didn’t say anything about a second child on the phone, Bobby.”

            “This is Sam,” Bobby said, propping another pillow behind Dean’s thin shoulders. His eyes opened at his brother’s name. “He ain’t sick but he’s on the skinny side. They both are. Both real skittish too if you know what I mean.” Carolyn nodded and scrubbed her hands, appraising Dean from over at the sink, watching him watch Sam. She sat down on a stool and rolled over to the bed.

            “Hey, Dean,” she said in a soft voice.

            “Hi,” he whispered.

            “I’m a doctor and was wondering if I could take a listen to your lungs?”

            “Will you make me better?” Dean wanted to know. “So I can take care of Sam?”

            “I’m gonna try,” Carolyn said. “I have a feeling you just need some special medicine.”

            “Okay,” Dean said. He turned his head away from the doctor as she uncovered him, playing with Sam, who Bobby had put up on the bed next to him. Sam was waving around a tongue depressor, successfully smacking Bobby in the face with it.

            “Oi,” Bobby said. “Watch yourself.” Sam giggled. It was only the second time Bobby had heard him laugh.

            “Oh, Bobby,” Carolyn breathed a moment later, averting his attention back to Dean. The doctor had undone the buttons on Bobby’s shirt and Dean’s body lay exposed on the bed. Under the fluorescent lights, Bobby could see why she was alarmed.

            The kid was skinny.

            And not in the fast-metabolism, non-stop energy kind of way. He was thin in the way people got when they skipped meals at a time, when their ribs became sharp protrusions. Carolyn seemed almost hypnotized by the way Dean’s hipbones rose and fell with each breath.

            “I know,” Bobby said, remembering his own shock when he had bathed and dressed the boy for the first time.

            “This isn’t from being sick,” Carolyn said.

            “I know,” Bobby repeated.

            “Is the little one this bad?”

            “No,” Bobby said. But he stripped Sam anyway, tickling the boy’s stomach as the shirt was removed. Sam’s ribs were prominent but Carolyn saw that he wasn’t nearly as malnourished as his older brother.

            “I give Sam food.” Dean’s voice was low, halfway between a whisper and rasp. He’d been watching the two adults the whole time and even though he was six years old, he wasn’t stupid. They both turned to look at him. “When there isn’t enough,” Dean explained. “I give Sam the food.”

            “Hunter’s kids,” Bobby explained, however lame it sounded. Carolyn took a deep breath and nodded. Bobby had told her all about the supernatural world when his wife Karen had died. Since then, she’d been his go-to medical professional on cases where his own stockpile of supplies wasn’t good enough. Cases like these. Yet, in all the years, he had never brought her a child. And now he had shown up with two? She’d never seen Bobby talk to a kid, let alone bring one to the hospital.

            The clatter of tongue depressor against floor brought her out of her musings.

            “Uh-oh,” Sam said, turning to Bobby. “Uh-oh.”

            “Yep,” Bobby said. “You should be more careful, huh?” Sam scooted toward his brother as Carolyn pulled out her stethoscope. “Uh-oh,” he told Dean, who had it in him to smile.

            “Sam’s favorite words, I’m discovering,” Bobby told Carolyn. “He don’t say much.” Carolyn looked thoughtful as she listened to Dean’s chest. She helped him lean forward and braced his shoulders when he coughed loudly. Sam reached out a tiny hand and started rubbing Dean’s bare back.

            “I know it hurts, buddy,” Carolyn said as Dean whimpered. She wiped saliva from his chin with the sheet. “Can you remember how long you’ve been coughing?” Dean squeezed his eyes shut shook his head. Carolyn motioned to the nurse who had just come in.

            “Let’s give him 100% O2,” she said before turning back to Dean. “This nifty mask is going to make your lungs feel so much better.”

            “No,” Dean panted, struggling out of her grip. Despite his weakened condition, the kid writhed enough to slip out of the doctor’s grip. He made it as far as the other side of the bed before Bobby caught him around the chest with one arm.

            “Hold up, kiddo,” he said as Dean twisted against him. “Where you going?”

            “Home,” Dean said, lashing out with his feet. “I want to go home!” The shout brought on yet another coughing fit and he doubled over so that the only thing holding him up was Bobby’s forearm. The nurse swooped in and attached an oxygen mask.

            “Deep breaths, buddy,” Carolyn said. “It’s scary, I know.” Bobby’s heart broke a little as Dean gulped down the precious oxygen, tears running down his cheeks. The kid was frightened and exhausted and didn’t seem to understand they were just trying to help. The whole scenario reminded Bobby they were dealing with a little boy and not a wounded animal. He hugged Dean tight to him, trying to lessen the spasms rippling through the kid’s muscles.

            “Wanna go home,” Dean mumbled a few minutes later. Bobby was now sitting on the bed and Dean was curled up in his arms, refusing to even glance at the doctor. Sam was sprawled out over the bed so that his head was cushioned on Dean’s feet and he was swinging the tongue depressor back and forth as if it was the most interesting object he’d ever seen.

            “I know, I know,” Bobby said. Without thinking, he brushed a lock of sweaty hair away from Dean’s face. When he got better, the boy was getting a proper haircut. “But Carolyn here is gonna make you feel better. So you can take care of Sam, remember?” Dean sniffed but nodded into Bobby’s shirt. He crawled back toward the doctor and allowed her to start an IV, keeping his eyes trained on Bobby the whole time. The Hunter tried to give him a reassuring smile but if he was being honest, those green eyes made his skin crawl just the tiniest bit. They weren’t innocent in the slightest.

            “Sam, how old are you?” Carolyn asked, moving onto the younger Winchester. Sam ignored her. She glanced up at Bobby and tried again. “Sam, how many are you?” She held up five fingers. Sam didn’t look at her until prompted to by Dean. Then he just stared. After a moment he ducked his head down against Dean’s body, drawing his knees up to his chest.

            “Told ya he don’t talk,” Bobby said.

            “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” the doctor said. “Moving around is bound to shake any kid up, maybe enough to delay speech. His dad will want to get him tested if he’s not talking by three.”

            “And Dean?” Bobby said.

            “You’re probably right with the pneumonia,” she continued. “We’ll take some chest x-rays and fix him up with antibiotics. And definitely some IV nutrients. His body can’t heal with how malnourished he is.” She leaned over and tickled Sam on his stomach. “Hey Sam, can I take a listen to your chest?” The toddler squirmed out of her reach.

            “Sam, be good,” Dean said as if he hadn’t thrown a similar tantrum not ten minutes ago. “It’s okay.”

            “No,” Sam said, standing up on the mattress and tottering toward Bobby. He flung himself around the man, the warmth from his naked skin leeching into Bobby. “No!” he wailed.

            “Looks like you’ve got yourself a friend,” Carolyn said, eyebrows raised. Dean was also looking rather astonished. He’d never seen his little brother throw himself at anyone else.

            “Let’s let the nice lady take a listen,” Bobby said. “And after that we can go get ice cream,” he added quickly as Sam screwed up his face to shout again.

            “Hungwy?” he asked, looking around the room as if the ice cream cone was going to pop out of the wall. It never failed.

            “You know I’d really like to keep Dean here for observation,” Carolyn said a few minutes later after she had examined Sam. Like his brother he was thin but unlike his brother, he showed just the beginnings signs of malnourishment. She was more concerned about how frightened he seemed to be when she touched him, or even looked at him.

            Bobby sighed as he tugged the t-shirt back over Sam’s head. He’d blown up one of the rubber gloves into a balloon and Sam was batting it against the bed, giggling when Dean swatted it with his hands to make it float into the air. Sam’s legs were resting on top of his brother’s so that the two were just a tangle of limbs. Like their father had said, there was something odd about how close they were.

            “I was afraid you were gonna say that. I don’t much like the idea of leaving Dean here. I trust you, but it’d be wrong. Not when his Daddy thinks he’s with me.” Carolyn nodded and bit her lip. The six year old was in severe condition, but she wasn’t going to argue with Bobby.

            “How about just leaving him for a few hours? Let him rest and get some nutrition and antibiotics. Then come back and see how he’s doing.”

            “I don’t think you can separate these two,” Bobby said, cap twisting in his hands. Something deep in the pit of his stomach warned him it wasn’t a good idea. Having them on different floors of the house had been struggle enough, what with Sam feeling the need to see his brother every five minutes. “They’re both gonna go ballistic.”

            “I’m going to give Dean a light sedative anyway,” Carolyn said, waving aside his concern. “To help his lungs and get him through the tests without making him nervous. I’m sure you can handle an upset two-year-old.” Bobby had his doubts, ones that were justified when he lifted Sam off the bed.

            “Down,” Sam demanded at once. His little body reached so far out toward the bed that he almost fell out of Bobby’s arms.

            “Nope,” Bobby said. “Look here, a lollipop!” Sam busied himself trying to undo the wrapper while Carolyn gave Dean the sedative. He felt bad snowing the kid like this but he told himself it was for Dean’s own good, that he wouldn’t remember much of this in a few days. Still, it was hard to step to the other side of the curtain, as if the thin piece of fabric was now a wall between him and Dean. He didn’t like this one bit; it felt like his was missing something as he took a few steps toward the door.

            “Dee?” Sam asked, looking over his shoulder, spraying Bobby’s stubble with sticky spit as he did so. “Dee?”

            “We’ll come back,” Bobby promised, walking more quickly now. Sam tensed in his arms and the lollipop dropped from his fingers; Bobby didn’t stop to pick it up.

            “Dee!” Sam screamed just as they cleared the Emergency Room doors and people were starting to stare. Bobby winced; it went against his Hunter nature to draw any extra attention to himself. People around town didn’t exactly know him well and the last thing he wanted was any story getting around about him and a wailing kid. He didn’t need to add suspected kidnapper to his profile.

            “Deeeeeeeeee!”

            The incessant shrieks had the intensity of fire sirens, Bobby’s head reeling as he struggled to snap Sam into his carseat. The toddler’s back was arched, his hands formed into tiny fists and beating upon Bobby’s shoulders, face, chest, wherever he could reach. By the time Bobby stepped back, he was breathing heavy, as if he’d just gone a round with a wendigo. But no, just an irate two-year-old who was currently clawing at the windows as his face turned more and more purple.

            “Give me strength,” Bobby muttered. To the sky, the ground, whoever the hell was listening.

            He’d take all the help he could get at the moment, heaven and hell be damned.


End file.
